


Songs and Wisdom

by daphnerunning



Series: What is Wrought Between Us [19]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:28:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28108584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: In a cave by the sea, a pair of twins hears a lament. Has it not ever been so?
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë, Past/Mentioned Fingon/Maedhros
Series: What is Wrought Between Us [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019358
Comments: 41
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

Shadows clung even to the sand, these days. Elrohir thought he could see each tiny grain of sand cast its own, lengthening in the deepness of the Fourth Age, of which he'd seen more than he'd ever intended.

Blades of grass seemed too long. Trees seemed gargantuan. "Is this what it feels like?" he asked his brother, feeling a bit dislocated. "When it leaves us?"

"I think so." Elladan did not sound terribly concerned. "Or it is close. It will leave us soon, I think."

"Círdan says there is room in the last ship." There was little inflection in Elrohir's voice.

"I am certain there is. Ada said the shipwright always knows how many will sail."

"Will it be us?"

"I don't think so."

"I thought not."

They shared a brief, weary smile. The lure was strong, now that they were so close to achieving their goal. There were so few orcs left, in Middle-Earth. It would be a shame to leave while any still remained. How could they face their mother, knowing the work was still undone, knowing the promise was unfulfilled?

Better for her to know they were here, they had both decided. That the creatures would never, could never bother her again, even if it meant their parting was final. She had chosen a world without orcs over a world with her children in it long ago, and they would honor her choice.

They rode along the shore, each of them casting the occasional longing look out over the sea. The waves called to them, called to all of their kin, but the song was old and faded now, as they were. Perhaps soon, they would begin to look old, as Men.

One of Elladan's ears pricked. "Do you hear singing?"

Elrohir blinked, and focused. "Yes. I think I do."

"Unless my ears are untrue, that is the Nolodantë."

"It's...very sorrowful," Elrohir said slowly, feeling tears spring to his eyes unbidden. "The legends, do you think?"

For legend had said for thousands of years that there was a wandering spirit that drifted up and down the shore, sucking unwary travelers into sorrow, leaving them wrung out with longing and despair, changed forever when they returned. But they had sought such things in their youth, as they had sought many tales of valor and praise, and found no proof.

Despite the fading, despite the memory that ached in them (Arwen, dear Arwen, gone, had they done right by bringing Arathorn's son to Rivendell?), Elladan and Elrohir gave each other a small smile, and set out in search. "One more adventure, perhaps."

"Just one more?"

"And then some killing, I assume."

"Perhaps we will live another five hundred years, like Uncle."

"I do not think I have the energy for such a thing, brother."

"And when you run out of energy, I shall go with you."

It took three days to find the source of the sorrowful singing, but they were doing little else. They nibbled lembas, part of their great, but dwindling store from their grandmother's last gift. They dream-walked, as they ever had, eyes half-open, legs moving in slow, elegant patterns.

And then, long past the time their brief flash of curiosity should have faded, they found a hidden cave, leading deep underneath the world.

"It looks like a spider's lair."

"No spider sings like that."

"No human either."

"No elf that I've heard."

Their voices echoed down into the cave. The singing stopped.

There was a sudden, ragged inhale. Then, a voice said, weary beyond all measure, "Boys?"

Elrohir looked askance at his brother, but shrugged. "Yes?" he called, and Elladan elbowed him.

"Don't speak to it."

"Why not? It called us boys. Doesn't seem like something an evil power would do."

Slow, dragging footsteps sounded from within the cave. Elrohir grinned, and put a hand to his bow. "Perhaps this was a bad idea."

Elladan rolled his eyes, and drew his sword. "Whatever you are, I will not permit you to visit ills upon this land," he called, his voice ringing with their father's tone of command, little as he had ever cared to use it during their long lifetimes.

The sound came again, and sounded almost a sob. "Elrond?" it said, in a hoarse, breathless gasp. "Elros?"

The brothers exchanged another look, warier now. "Ah..."

Then a figure appeared in the mouth of the cave. He was tall as only an elf could be, wth ragged robes that looked a thousand years out of date, and worn gaunt lines in his face, but the Light of the Trees was in his eyes. He stared beseechingly at them, then launched himself forward.

Elrohir caught the elf, who seemed less intent on harming him than clinging to him, and looked helplessly at his brother. "My lord, I believe you have mistaken us."

"I--no, no, I would know your voices anywhere, your faces--that is the blood of Lúthien, it must be, and of Turo, I never _dreamed_ you still lived--it has been long, hasn't it? Or was everything since then a dream? The waters, the shadow, the screaming, the _waters_ \--"

"Is it a healer you need?" Elrohir asked nervously. "Lord Elrond, the famed healer, is that what you need?" He _looked_ like he needed a healer.

"The one you speak of is our father," Elladan said, and took the elf's arm, attempting to pull him off. It was more difficult than either of them had imagined, for though he was starved and wan, he was possessed of a powerful, ancient strength. "My lord, it is my father you seek, not my brother and I!"

"Your father?" The elf finally pulled back, and Elrohir thought that he was not entirely sane, weak as he was. There was something wrong with the hand gripping his arm, some texture that should not be, in the skin of the Eldar. "Your...your father, he--who, Elrond? Which one of you is Elrond?"

"My lord--"

"No one's lord, that was him, call me Ada as you once did, when all was quiet and you were unafraid, before it all burned," the elf said beseechingly, and fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "Boys...my boys, my boys...that you would live, that you would grow so fine and strong..."

Elrohir shared a look with his brother. "To the Havens?"

"If there is anywhere for him, it is there," Elladan agreed. "My lord, what--"

"Ada, Elros, _please_ \--"

"I'm--" Color sprang into Elladan's cheeks, and he looked helplessly at his brother. "Ada, then. Come with us, we're going to take care of you."

The strange old elf went quite still, sagging on his knees. That made it much easier for the twins to lift him, getting him up onto Elladan's horse in front of him, turning to make for the Havens.

They had been riding for three hours, perhaps four, when Elrohir asked quietly, "So. Do you think it's...him?"

"Who else could it be?"

Elrohir shook his head, mystified. "I thought he threw himself into the sea during the War of Wrath. That's what Ada said."

"Maybe that's what Ada thinks."

"...We did say we were waiting for a sign, either way."

"Well...yes. But I thought--"

"--that it would be--"

"--a sign to stay."

"Me too."

"Hmm."

"Do you need him to sit with me for a bit?"

"He's not heavy. The horse can carry both for a bit longer."

"And then?"

"We'll be at the Havens."

The Havens were still lovely, even after most of the light of the Eldar had faded from Middle-Earth. Elladan helped the strange elf off of his horse, though he seemed to be in a daze, and went whither he was bidden like a tired child.

The last ship was still in the harbor. It would be, Círdan had told him, until everyone who was meant to be on it had arrived. The last time the twins had wandered by, it had been moored, with sailes wrapped tightly. Now it was bobbing gently, merely tied to the dock, and the gangplank was lowered.

"Looks like it's time," Elladan said.

They exchanged a glance.

"Elladan, Elrohir." Círdan waved a hand, ancient, but still graceful and sure. "Your quarters are prepared, next to your grandfather."

Sure enough, on the boat, Elrohir caught a glimpse of Celeborn's silvery Telerin hair. "And..."

Círdan nodded at the elf leaning on Elladan's shoulder, still occasionally whispering _my boys, my boys, you've come back_ _to me at last_. "His as well. And long overdue."


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you think either of them will be there?"

Elrond squeezed Celebrian's hand, giving her as much of a smile as he could manage. Eönwë had spotted the Last Ship on the way to Valinor some days hence, and both Elrond and his wife had grown increasingly restless since. Her mother had been little help, staring into the grey distance, mouth moving over words she was not speaking aloud, but to her husband. If she knew who else was on the ship, she was refusing to say.

"I do not know," he said, for the thousandth time. "I have hope, but that is all. They had not yet made up their minds when I left. It may be that they chose, as Arwen chose."

Tears filled her lovely silver eyes, and she pulled her hand free of his, turning to stroll up and down the sea once more. Elrond sighed, watching her go. Even in the Blessed Lands, there were some hurts that even he could not heal, no matter how wise he became.

"Is it today? Do we think it's going to be today?"

The familiar voice made him look up, smiling in welcome. Ereinion Gil-Galad was tall and handsome when he came over the low hills near the beach, but it was not he who had spoken. That was the elf next to him--a bit taller, with the Light in his eyes, and golden ribbons woven into his hair. Elrond bowed, but Fingon just waved a hand at him, dismissing the formality as usual. "Good morning, Elrond. I see your lovely wife has forsaken you for the pleasures of sadness again?"

"Ada, please," Gil-Galad said, long-suffering. No matter how long it had been, Elrond did not think he would ever grow used to his King (no matter who ruled in Tirion, Gil-Galad would always be _his_ King, had been his King for thousands of years) acting more or less like a long-suffering child around his father. He'd always thought of his King as charismatic, shrewd, kind, fearless, and wise; Elrond had never realized just how concerned with his own dignity Gil-Galad was, until he saw Fingon, son of Fingolfin, ruffle his hair and make him huff.

"What?" Fingon demanded. "As if I do not understand the lure of melancholy? Who better?"

"Taking a break from your daily walk?" Elrond asked, seeing no accustomed harp on Fingon's arm.

The former High King shrugged, and took off his boots, stuffing his toes into the sand. "Yesterday, my good friend Námo said, 'No, and not only no, but go learn some new songs before you come back again.' So I'm here for material to write more songs."

"It sounds as if Námo has perhaps come to like you."

"Well, yes," Fingon said, with a shrug. "Everyone likes me."

He seemed unconcerned. There was a stark longing in the words, but not the agony Elrond knew of his own long separation from Celebrian. Then again, from what he'd heard, Fingon had been re-embodied over a thousand years ago, after the promised healing and expiation of Mandos.

"From the songs about you, I'd have expected you to make them up on the spot," Elrond suggested.

"Well, I have," Fingon admitted. "But there are only so many things that rhyme with _please, Mandos, Maedhros, return, reborn,_ and _forgive._ And that's the general vein, so frankly, I'm unsurprised he's getting bored of me. Lúthien, I am not."

Coming to the Blessed Lands meant meeting elves that had shaped the destiny of Arda since its very beginning. Elrond had met elves so ancient and powerful he dropped to his knees at once in sheer awe--Ingwë, Fingolfin, his own great-grandfather Turgon of Gondolin, High King Arafinwë--and often they were very different than he'd imagined, from the stories he'd heard of them as a youth. That made sense, he supposed. They were so old they made him feel like a child, and he knew himself to be very old indeed.

(Nerdanel was nothing like he'd expected. He had expected a sculptor, a bereft mother, a leader, something. He had not expected her to snatch him by the shoulders, and announce with an oddly pronounced lisp, "Back off, Itarillë, you've surely other grandchildren to spoil, you will _share_ until Tyelpë gets back!")

But Fingon, the famed High King of the Nirnaeth Aroediad, the Fair Prince of the Fell Peak, had somehow been _exactly_ as Elrond had imagined him. Perhaps that was because he'd learned little from history books, and far more from the library museum in Lindon, and the letters Gil-Galad had painstakingly compiled as a memorial to the men who had raised him.

Fingon had a way of writing that sounded exactly like his spoken voice, making his personality leap off of the paper. That part was easy. The startling part had been reading the return letters, full of such life and humor and tenderness, from the elf Elrond had known as Maedhros at the end of his life.

Then again, had Maedhros died first, perhaps Fingon would have become unrecognizable, hard, and bitter. Elrond had certainly felt some of those changes in himself, when Celebrian had left for the Blessed Lands. Perhaps in another few milennia, she would forgive him for the choices their children had made, and he could forgive himself, and they could truly be as one again.

The ship's sails dipped, and a song went up from the docks. Some of Celeborn's Telerin kin awaited there, as well of many of those Círdan had helped and sheltered, come to pay tribute. Gil-Galad's stern face relaxed, and he lengthened his strides, headed down to the beach.

"That child," Fingon said, shaking his head with a grin. "There are three elves he calls Father. Me, for raising him, Círdan, for his teaching over the next centuries, and my cousin-son Orodreth, for birthing him or something. I don't know, I wasn't there."

"That must be..." Elrond heard an odd note in the words, and swallowed, feeling them hit home. "That must," he said, picking his words more diplomatically, "be difficult, at times, to hear, for one who raised him."

"You would think so. But we are long-lived, are we not? Some of us, more than once. Surely, there is enough love in the heart of a true and noble elf like that to call three men Father, and mean it each time. Besides, it isn't as if he needs to be taught anything again. He's acquitted himself better than any of us, I'd say. Certainly _longer_."

Elrond gave him a brief smile. "Perhaps you should ask the Valar for an Eagle to bear you into the sky. It sounds as if you should speak to Eärendil."

"I've been speaking to everyone. Looking for inspiration for that song," Fingon explained cheerfully. "Námo likes the ones about you, I think."

"You sing of me? To Námo?"

Fingon laughed, and grabbed his boots, starting to stride down to the dock as the ship pulled in. Sand flowed white between his long toes, and without his boots, he seemed almost of a height with Elrond, though most of the Caliquendi were far taller than their later, faded bretheren, and he was no exception. "Lord Elrond, I have been singing to Námo most days of my life for well nigh a thousand years. At least a few times a week. I sing about _everyone._ I daresay, with the amount of practice I'm getting, I should at least be accounted among the great bards by now."

"I have often heard of you listed among their number. Few of them, no matter how skilled, have saved lives with their songs."

"It wasn't exactly my singing that saved the day," Fingon said, laughing. "You only think of me as great because you don't know better." Then he paused, and his eyes widened. "Oh. I forgot. Of course you know better."

An old hurt tightened, briefly, around Elrond's heart. Fingon had been one of the first to meet him, after his reunions with Celebrian and Gil-Galad. Elrond hadn't known quite what to say, but hadn't needed to say much. Fingon had been desperately hungry for any stories of Maedhros he hadn't yet known, told by someone who did not loathe him, and to each scrap Elrond ventured, muttered, _"That's him, that's exactly him, I can't believe him, when I finally see him again I'm going to tell him a thing or two..."_

"Yes," he said simply. "Though I wish I could have heard him sing something other than a lament. No...that isn't entirely true. There were lullabies, when I was young."

Fingon's smile softened. "He was little older than I, but he used to sing them to Aro and Írissë. I wonder if..."

When he did not continue, Elrond turned to look at him, and saw Fingon staring, slack-jawed, at the ship. There was a brilliant spectacular of fireworks, set up by Olórin, no doubt, as Galadriel embraced her husband for the first time in centuries, under a pyrotechnic flower of silver and gold. Elrond smiled, then caught the sight of a pair of dark heads, hard to see at this distance. He started forward, hurrying, then running as if he were some youth barely out of his majority. It could not be, it could not be--

But it was. They were there, hale and strong, looking as if he'd never seen them ride away without a promise to follow. Elrond felt tears sting his eyes as they saw him, and then they were in his arms, his fine sons, home with him at last. "You came," he whispered, and pulled away, only to look into their faces one by one, kissing their foreheads. "You came. I had given up hope."

Elladan wiped his own eyes, and looked around. "Mother?"

"Close," he assured them, and saw their faces ease of some tension. His own heart soared. Perhaps with the twins here, the last walls between them would finally come down. "She will be so pleased to see you."

"Even if there were still some orcs when we left?" Elrohir asked, as if he were some young human child, and not the elder of many civilizations.

"Oh!" Elladan pulled back, as if he recalled something. "We, ah, brought someone else."

"We weren't entirely certain we should--"

"But Círdan seemed to think it was all right--"

"And we didn't know what else to do--"

"So we did."

How he had missed their speech. They had spoken so as young children, but had grown out of it, mostly, in adulthood. He wasn't surprised they had begun to revert to it, wandering alone in the wilds together for the Valar only knew how long. He and his own twin had not spoken so, but they had not been quite so _similar_ as his own sons.

 _I miss you_ , he thought, as he always did. Six thousand years was not enough time to stop missing a twin.

"All right," he said, for the greatest gift he could have asked for was in front of him, and now neither of them would ever need to mourn a brother. "But let's find your mother. Unless--is it someone that one of you has decided to marry?" That _would_ be a surprise to Celebrian, and to himself as well.

Then, from out of the ship, he saw Maglor Fëanorian appear.

Time seemed to freeze, then warp. Suddenly he was a child again, and long arms were lifting him into a saddle. _"Do not fear,"_ a gentle voice said, and hummed a lullaby. _"Nothing will hurt you while I live."_ Cool fingers closed over his own, showing him where to pluck each plant to create the best poultices and tinctures, frankly cursing his own lack of expertise. A weary grin. _"You're better at this than I am."_ Songs woven together, a tapestry of music, showing him how to call rivers down, how to breathe life into the fading, how to call storms and shake the earth to keep his loved ones safe, how to sing a song of summer's bounty in the middle of a starving winter. _"But when I cry out in the night for the darkness in my mind, it is not my enemy who holds the weapon."_ Sheltering him, especially from himself, his strange new powers that made others shy away from him. Keeping him safe, when the world burned.

Maglor looked at him, and Elrond saw his face was stark with fear.

"No," he whispered in response to that fear--Maglor's obvious fear that he would be forgotten, that he would be remembered with disgust--and crossed the distance to the boat in three long strides, grabbing the older elf around the shoulders, pulling him into a fierce hug. It seemed wrong, that Maglor should be little taller than himself, for Elrond was hardly grown when they had parted, still a gawky youth who had not chosen his species. "Ada."

"Elrond," Maglor whispered, and wept into his shoulder.

He had imagined it. He'd heard the myths of the sad song on the shore, and ridden out many times, hardly daring to hope, but never finding. Each time the legend was spoken, he couldn't help himself, and went riding off again, hoping that this time, he would be successful, and they could meet as adults, and share songs and wisdom. It would be better now. He had much to share, had studied for millenia. More than that, he had enough material for his own laments now to rival Maglor's, and could have shared that with him, too.

But he had never found even a hint that the story was true. Never so much as a whisper, and he had decided long ago that Maglor _was_ dead, as the official tale told.

And now, he was here. He seemed small, and weary, and utterly overwhelmed in his sorrow, but he was here. "I've always wanted to tell you...so many things," Elrond said quietly, and couldn't think of any of them, now that he was actually here.

" _Maglor?"_

At the sound of that voice, Maglor's head whipped up, his eyes wild. " _Finno?_ "

Elrond found himself rather summarily knocked to the side as High King Fingon let out a whoop, and scooped Maglor up in a hug that lifted him clean off the deck of the ship. "Ahaha! I knew it! I knew you were alive! Námo wouldn't tell me if you were in the Halls, but I could just feel that you weren't. Oh, your mother is going to be _so_ happy. The Ambarussa have returned, you know, and Aro is back, and Írissë, and Father, of course, and Turo _very_ recently, and your grandmother, too. Everyone will be so happy to see you!"

"I...I don't know..."

Maglor looked like a shadow of his former self. At that, Elrond had a suspicion the former self he knew was but a shadow of what he had once been.

"Oh!" Fingon laughed in utter delight, as if all of his problems had been solved. "I just realized! You must be what I'm waiting for! You can help me with the new song."

"New..."

"Námo is sick of me, of course. He demands that if I must come to entreat for Maedhros to be released every day, I must at least bring a new song. So, you will help me write! Of course, this must be what we were waiting for. For none ever said that the voice of Lúthien was the better of Maglor, eh?"

"Give him a moment," Elrond urged, and a bit of Fingon's sudden ecstatic energy cooled. Elrond noticed that Fingon was breathing very hard, and his eyes were shining very brightly. "Of course he'll help you, and so will I."

Fingon brightened. "You will?"

"Yes." Elrond took Maglor's hand--scarred and twisted, that would take quite a bit of his own gift to heal--and smiled. "He and I have often sung together, after all."


End file.
